


Ultra Cataclysmic Arts Creative Max

by yoshizora



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2
Genre: Gen, everyone's dumb that's all this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 18:01:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20550359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: Nia lets Zeke try using her sword, and has regrets.





	Ultra Cataclysmic Arts Creative Max

**Author's Note:**

> one month of 3h and i already feel rusty writing for xc2 oops 
> 
> this is an idea i've been sitting on for weeks, i used an anime attack name generator for inspo

Out by Theosoir Rear Gate, yelling echoes across the vast expanse of Genbu’s exterior, to the farthest mountain ranges that line the edges of its shell. Snow stirs in the wind. Another mighty shout threatens to disturb the beast itself.

Well, not really, but the noise Zeke is making is more than enough to draw Mòrag and Brighid’s attention, while they had been loitering around the temple ruins.

They both meander over to watch from the relative safety of the stone archway as Zeke brandishes Nia’s scimitar with big flourishing movements— and Nia jogs after him, hands outstretched with an ether link flickering between them.

Mòrag can’t quite tell if she’s trying to keep up, or if she’s chasing after him to take her sword back. Brighid silently bets on the latter.

“Having fun, you two?” Brighid dryly asks when Zeke runs by within earshot. He digs his heels into the snow to come to a grinding halt, and Nia crashes into his back with a very annoyed _oof._

“Ha—ha! Whaddya think?! I look damn cool with Nia’s sword, don’t I!” Zeke does a… sort of gesture with the sword, a _very broad and careless_ gesture, that could have sliced off the tips of Nia’s ears if she didn’t duck in time. Mòrag takes one big step backwards.

Pandoria pokes her head out from behind a half-formed snowman. “He wouldn’t stop pestering her until she agreed to let him try it out! That’s the short version of the story, anyway.”

Only then do they notice the dozen or so snowmen that had been put up around the area; one of them is missing its head, rather noticeably.

“I’m at my wit’s end,” Nia groans, shoving at Zeke’s back with little effect. “Pandoria, you’ve got the endurance of Titans. How do you even deal with this buffoon’s nonsense all the time?”

“Ehh, you get used to it,” she says with a shrug. “My Prince may be loud, but at least he’s funny.”

“It’s called _charisma_, thanks, Pandy!”

Nia turns to Mòrag with a pleading look. Mòrag turns her attention upwards at nothing in particular. Maybe the falling snow. Brighid does the same.

“The weather today isn’t so bad, Brighid.”

“Right you are, Lady Mòrag.”

Sensing that he’s beginning to slip from the spotlight, Zeke strikes at the closest snowman (with a shout to accompany it); his unfortunate target bursts in a shower of ice and water and vapor, and he twists his entire body with an unnecessary flourish to land where the snowman once stood. He waits for exactly three seconds before straightening up and turning to his uninterested audience.

“I call that one… _Eye of the Cerulean Storm._ Pretty cool name for a pretty cool Art, eh?”

“Nope. Scrap it.” Nia immediately says.

“—You told me to scrap the last eight ideas I had, too!”

_That_ manages to bring Mòrag’s attention back to what’s happening right in front of her. She looks between Nia and Zeke with a somewhat curious frown. “Oh? I would be interested to hear the other ideas Zeke had come up with.”

“… Lady Mòrag.”

“Mòrag,” Nia drags her hands down her face. “You can’t be serious.”

Pandoria sighs and continues working on the snowmen.

“Finally! Someone who can appreciate my ingenious artistry!” Zeke crows. He rests the scimitar over his shoulder, tilting his head back and placing his fingers over his eyepatch. “True talent does tend to go unnoticed… perhaps it’s my overwhelming power…? Ah, the Zekenator’s hidden aptitude shall go ignored no longer…! This is it!”

“Quit mumbling that weird crap to yourself and just get on with it,” Nia snaps. “We haven’t got all day.”

Nevertheless, she keeps the affinity link up, though she does roll her eyes as Zeke flexes and stretches in preparation. He glances back to make sure Mòrag and Brighid are watching— they are, clearly ready to judge and scrutinize and criticize— and raises the sword skyward, taking a deep breath to let out a mighty bellow, dashing forward with explosive speed.

“Here we go! Check this out! _Cataclysmic Kick!!_”

He kicks a snowman over.

“AT LEAST USE THE SWORD, YOU ARSEHOLE.”

“If it were a real enemy it’d be in pieces, so what’s the issue here?! Don’t be so judgmental, fluffy-ears!” Before Nia is even done berating him, Zeke turns to Mòrag and Brighid. “But what’d _you_ two think?”

“Crude.”

“Needs more polish.”

“What?! That’s it?!”

Mòrag puts a hand to her chin. “While you do have a knack for… a creative approach, this isn’t one of your best. I must say I’m disappointed. I thought we’d bear witness to something truly extraordinary today. What a shame— even your Arts’ names are lacking.”

“Agreed,” Brighid chimes in. “Not that you’re ever so adept as Lady Mòrag is generously implying. Frankly, I think all of your Arts are an embarrassment.”

“Elegant weapons deserve elegant Arts.”

“And your style is anything _but_ elegant.”

Zeke slowly crouches and presses his palms into the snow, muttering to himself. He sets the sword aside and Nia picks it up.

“I think I actually feel sorry for you, Shellhead. Hey, I’ll let you slice down a few more snowmen if you want. Or, er, kick ‘em.”

“No!” Zeke shouts, dramatically flopping down onto his side. “I’d like to see Mòrag do better! Pah, as if anyone could outdo the Zekenator’s patented titles! _Devastation of the Tidal Moon. Super Extreme Tsunami Strike. Rondo of Life and Death. Gray Winter Evening.”_

“Are you coming up with Arts, or writing poetry?” Pandoria goes to sit beside him, offering a consoling pat to his head. “You did your best, Prince. Nice efforts out there.”

“Oh, Pandy…!”

“Anyway,” Nia coughs. “I guess we’re calling it a day, then? Great, I was getting hungry—“

“Hold on.” Mòrag holds up a hand, and a feeling of dread begins to creep upon Nia when she sees a sort of glint in Mòrag’s eyes. “I cannot let this challenge go unsettled.”

“What challenge…”

“Nia. If I may?”

“I’m _hungry._”

“Just let her try it for a couple minutes,” Brighid whispers to her. “She won’t settle down, otherwise.”

Oh, right, because Zeke spouted all that babbling about being the best at coming up with Arts and Mòrag’s ego simply can’t allow him to continue declaring those blatant lies. Or something. Nia rubs at her temples with one hand; it’s sometimes easy to forget how utterly _ridiculous_ everyone could be, when the nonsense is easy to forgive by their undeniable proficiency in battles. This whole thing was a mistake. She should’ve shaken Zeke off and gone to hide in the library, or museum, or wherever else, instead of letting him try using her scimitar.

Such is the price to pay for solidifying their friendship in concrete. Hah.

“Fine. If you’re all gonna be this annoying about it,” Nia says, and she pushes the hilt of her sword forward for Mòrag to take. Forming the affinity link is easy enough, and she carefully watches as Mòrag weighs the sword in her hand, deliberation and intent in her stance.

Well, if it’s Mòrag, surely it won’t be as bad—

“_Spiteful Wrath of a Drowning Spirit!_”

All of the remaining snowmen, all of Pandoria’s hard work, are disemboweled in a flurry of wet snow.

Brighid is enthusiastically clapping. Of course. “What magnificence, Lady Mòrag! Beautiful form! Flawless as always!”

_It was just as bad as Zeke’s,_ Nia wants to shout so badly, but she’s suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion and the desire to do nothing more than drag herself back to the inn and sleep against Dromarch’s warm fur for maybe a week or two.

Zeke sits upright, squinting. “… Huh. Not bad at all. I’ll concede that much. Of course, I dunno if it matches up to the sheer might of my own Arts, though.”

“Hmph, how humiliating for you. Just admit defeat!” Brighid sneers, rubbing Mòrag’s shoulders. Mòrag smugly folds her arms.

“Nuh-uh! You’re not gonna roll over so easily, are you, Prince?!”

“If it’s a fight the Flamebringer wants, then it’s a fight she’ll get!” Zeke leaps back up to his feet, eye practically ablaze. “Nia! Your sword!”

“Hell no—“

“I’ve got an idea for a new Art already! _Noponic—_”

“_WHO’RE YOU CALLING A NOPON—_“

And so, from that day onward, no one is allowed to use Nia’s sword ever again.


End file.
